Shotgun Wedding
by YourFairyGodfather
Summary: Quinn moves in with Tina for Spring Break while Mercedes visits her family. And if Tina and Artie can't get it together and make out already, she's totally aiming for their shoes when her water breaks. Quinn POV, with A/T and plenty of Kurt.
1. Chapter 1

The introduction to what will eventually be a 5-6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie, and some Kurt and Mercedes for good measure.

Happy June, Gleeks! Thank you for all the reviews for _Venom and Monsters_; I'll be sure to get my Sue Sylvester back on as soon as I think of enough verbal barbs to get me thrown out of most respectable institutions. And to those of you who have read _Swift and Exacting_ and _Smashing Moral Ambiguity: _I hope you enjoyed Puck and Finn slashing Vocal Adrenalines' tires as much as I did.

I own a pretty extensive iTunes library of Glee hits, but nothing else yet.

* * *

Her smoking pre-pregnancy body notwithstanding, what Quinn really missed more than anything was her feet. Maybe it was that she hadn't been able to see them for about five weeks now; maybe it was the extra time she had to spend picking out shoes in the morning, choosing what would be the least uncomfortable on her swollen, puffy soles. Whatever the reason, even more than her taut stomach and formerly proportionate cleavage, Quinn wanted her normal, shapely, size 6 feet back. _Just another month, _she reminded herself. _The first thing I'm going to do after this baby is born is get a pedicure with a foot massage._

"So, guys. As you all know, this is our last rehearsal before Spring Break," Mr. Schuester was saying. "I know some of you have vacation plans, but for those of you staying in town, Rachel has volunteered to coordinate extra rehearsals. So if you're going to be around, be sure to let her know." He smiled at everyone. "You guys have been working really hard, and I couldn't be more proud. We're in great shape for Regionals, so let's give ourselves a round of applause, and have a great week off!" Quinn clapped halfheartedly as the room responded with varying degrees of enthusiasm.

Spring Break. The Old Quinn of eight months ago would have been thrilled. No school, no studying, no worries, just relaxation and a plane ticket to somewhere like Miami or Cancun. Now, she was kind of dreading the week off. Mercedes' family was driving to Oregon for a 5-day annual family reunion, and Quinn was less than thrilled to be tagging along. She'd gotten used to (and kind of liked) her friend's Mom and Dad, and Mercedes' two brothers were actually pretty cool, now that they had started looking at her face instead of her stomach when they talked to her. But two days of driving each way, five days of strangers staring at the pregnant white girl, and sleeping on a pull out couch did not sound particularly appealing.

The Old Quinn would have had an arsenal of scathing remarks to make about the situation. The New Quinn didn't say a word. She didn't have anywhere else to go.

"Hey, um, Quinn?" Quinn looked up from her purse to see Tina standing a few feet away, shyly playing with the strap on her bag. Her cheeks were slightly flushed with, what…fear? Embarrassment? Quinn didn't know her well enough to tell. But she'd always seemed nice (if really quiet) and she was close with Artie and Mercedes, both of whom had treated Quinn far better than she had any right to expect. So Quinn smiled as kindly as she could, hoping to put her at ease. "Hi Tina. What's going on?" she asked.

Tina dipped her head awkwardly, before looking back up and meeting Quinn's eyes. "Mercedes was saying at lunch that you were going with the Joneses to their family reunion over the break. She was worried it might be cutting it close to your due date." She twisted her mouth apologetically as Quinn's hand dropped to her stomach.

The same thought had occurred to Quinn when Mrs. Jones had first mentioned the trip. Giving birth was going to suck enough, but giving birth in Oregon, where she didn't know anybody or have any of her doctors? Really, really not what Quinn had in mind.

"Anyway," Tina pressed on, "we were wondering if maybe you might want to come over and stay at my house for the week. There's plenty of room for you, and that way you wouldn't have to travel or anything. And I live pretty close to the hospital, in case Drizzle comes early. Oh! I meant Beth, sorry." Tina's eyes were huge with alarm, and Quinn couldn't help but crack a smile. "It's okay," she reassured Tina, who looked slightly mortified. She shrugged her shoulders. "Sometimes, I still think of her as Drizzle in my head," she admitted. Tina relaxed a little at that, and returned Quinn's smile with a small one of her own.

Quinn glanced over at Mercedes, who was in the middle of an animated discussion with Kurt. (No doubt about something fashion and/or diva related—Quinn had quickly learned that the two topics comprised 90% of the pair's conversations.) If Tina had been talking to Mercedes, then her new roommate was probably fine with the idea of Quinn skipping out on the family road trip. "If it's all right with the Joneses, it sounds like a good plan to me," she said, answering the original question. "Do your parents mind?"

Tina smiled sadly. "It's just me this week," she explained. "My parents travel a lot, for work. I have friends over a lot, but it would be nice to have someone stay over."

Quinn watched her scuff her boot on the floor. Now that she had brought up the topic, she couldn't ever remember Tina mentioning her parents. Like, _ever _mentioning her parents.

She was pretty sure telling Principal Figgins that her Dad was King of the Vampires didn't count.

Quinn had met, or at least seen, everyone else's parents at the invitational earlier in the year. She hadn't really thought anything of it at the time, but in the few minutes that everyone was getting fussed over and having their pictures taken, Tina had been swinging Artie's little sister around by the arms, chatting with Mrs. Abrams.

That settled it. "I'd love to come stay with you," she said honestly. "My things are all at Mercedes' house, though, so I'll have to go back over there to finish packing."

"Told you she'd say yes!" Quinn hadn't realized that Mercedes had come up behind her. Accurately reading the half apprehensive, half guilty look on Quinn's face, Mercedes laughed and waved her hand at Quinn. "Don't worry, it's cool. Trust me, you're doing us all a favor: my Mom's been having nightmares about you going into labor in a truck stop bathroom all week. She'll be thrilled." She turned to Tina. "We can bring her by whenever. Wanna do dinner?" Tina grinned and hitched her bag onto her shoulder. "I'll call for pizza," she agreed, before giving them both a wave and heading toward the door.

"Get bacon on Little Mama's half," Mercedes called after her. Quinn raised a delicate eyebrow at Mercedes, who snorted. "You'll thank me later. Crazy woman eats pineapple and mushroom pizza. Now that just ain't right." She shuddered as the two girls started for the parking lot. "Now I am all for culinary experimentation, but there are some lines you just do not cross. Give me pepperoni any day."


	2. Chapter 2

The first real chapter of a 5-6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie and some Kurt for good measure.

Happy weekend! I'm on the road again, and was totally blown away when I logged onto the internet this morning and saw all of the interest in this story. My ego and I both thank you all for being awesome. I may not get a chance to type out the next chapter for a few days (wedding trumps all other time commitments) but I'll be back home early next week, so I can promise an update by Wednesday at the latest.

My nieces and nephew are Gleeks, but all I pwned was a dance-off with a thirteen year old punk.

* * *

Tina's house was cold.

Not cold as in 'someone-needs-to-turn-up-the-thermostat-right-now' cold. More like a 'people don't actually live here' kind of chill. There were no family pictures adorning the walls, just tastefully chosen prints. The tables were devoid of clutter; the few knickknacks expensive looking and on prominent display. The guest room where Quinn was unpacking her things was pristine, with perfectly folded bedcovers and hotel-issue toiletries in the bathroom. In a lot of ways, it was like the Fabray's house: big and ostentatious, designed to be seen and not touched, vacuum cleaner lines on the carpet and everything in it's place. Only Quinn was used to her former home. The Cohen-Chang residence felt more like a television sound stage or a giant Victorian dollhouse, abandoned for the night.

Quinn couldn't imagine shy little Tina, with her purple hair and arm warmers, growing up here.

Creeped out by the silence on the second floor, Quinn practically threw the last of her clothes (pregnancy bras were heinous) into a drawer and hastened down the stairs.

* * *

The Cohen-Chang's huge television was blaring, and Tina sat on the floor, leaning against the couch. Quinn eyed the vast assortment of nail polish on the coffee table as she watched Tina expertly add a clear topcoat to her toenails.

Capping the polish, Tina wiggled her feet and smiled before looking up at Quinn. "Did you find everything okay? We have more toiletries and towels and stuff in the hall closet, if you need them." Quinn shook her head, easing herself down on the couch and resting her hands on her massive stomach. "No, it's great," she half-lied, "thank you." She nodded toward Tina's toenails. "You did all that in five minutes?" Tina wiggled her toes again. They were black, with thin diagonal stripes of blue and purple in a crosshatch pattern. "I could paint yours if you want," Tina offered.

If Quinn hadn't already decided that she liked Tina, the prospect of a pedicure certainly would have done the trick. Smiling at Quinn's look of eagerness, Tina motioned for her to prop her feet up on the coffee table. "What colors do you want?" she asked. "I don't have pink or yellow, but I think I have pretty much anything else." Quinn shrugged. "Go ahead and surprise me," she said. "It's not like I can see what you're doing anyway." She instantly bit her lip, realizing that the self-deprecating comment could be interpreted as something bitchy that the Old Quinn would have said. Luckily, Tina didn't seem to take it that way, and Quinn sighed inwardly.

Making people actually like you instead of fear and respect you was a lot more complicated.

As Tina concentrated on her toes, Quinn looked around the room. Besides the kitchen where they had eaten dinner with Mercedes, this was the first room in the house that actually looked lived-in. The lighting was warmer, the pillows on the couch were disheveled. Both Tina and Quinn's school things sat in a heap to the side of the coffee table, which was piled high with magazines and Tina's makeup.

And…weird. "Hey Tina," Quinn asked, "why is there a rug rolled up by the glass doors?" Tina glanced over. "Oh, that's just a throw rug," she explained. "It's supposed to go over by the doorway, but I move it when Mom and Dad are gone. Artie's wheels get caught on it a lot, so it's just easier to have it out of the way." It was hard to tell since Tina's long hair was hiding most of her face, but Quinn was pretty sure she was blushing. She nodded. "Did he get you the ramp for the porch?" she asked, trying to keep her tone neutral.

One of the first things that Quinn had noticed when Mercedes drove up Tina's driveway was the wooden ramp over the front steps. Quinn wasn't sure what was going on between Tina and Artie anymore. When she had first joined Glee, she hadn't really paid much attention to either of them—they were losers, and she had bigger things to worry about: Finn, Rachel, the upcoming Chastity Ball. After the pregnancy scandal—and Quinn's abrupt drop to the bottom of the social heap—Quinn started noticing things about her fellow Gleeks, just by the virtue of being at rehearsal. Like how Artie had the sharpest, driest sense of humor, and how Tina was even more inquisitive and childlike than Britt when all of the girls were tripping on Vitamin D. And really, even when she hadn't been interested in their lives, she would had to have been blind not to see that they both had a thing for each other. Quinn had figured that if they weren't already dating, it was pretty much an inevitability.

Then one day, they just…weren't. Artie's quips were a little less funny and a little more biting. Tina's stutter was suddenly gone, but she spoke even less than usual—often making it through an entire rehearsal without uttering a word. They still sat near each other in rehearsal, but it was stiff, awkward. A few weeks went by and they seemed to be patching things up, but after Artie's mean-spirited comments about Tina's clothing, Tina's public bitch-fest in the hall, Artie's obvious heartbreak at the easy chemistry between Tina and Mike…

It was better than television. And when Quinn watched television, she got way invested in the characters.

While Quinn was thinking, Tina's cheeks were reddening. "I, um…I made the ramp," she stammered quietly. Quinn's eyes snapped back in amazement. "Wait, _what?_ You _built_ that?" she asked incredulously. "All by yourself?" Tina wouldn't look at her. "It wasn't that hard, I got the directions off the internet. It's…he wouldn't ever let me help him up the porch. I was scared he was going to hurt himself." Quinn still couldn't get over it. "Tina, that thing is like six feet long—how did you even get it there?" Tina went back to painting Quinn's toes. "It's collapsible. I put it in the closet when I know he won't be over for a while. It really wasn't a big deal, I just did it one weekend."

Quinn watched Tina rummage through the bottles on the table before selecting a clear polish. "So are you guys together for real then?" she asked before Tina could change the subject, fully expecting her to start blushing and stammering again. Tina surprised her by brushing her hair back with her hand and sighing. "It's…complicated," she started, and looked over at Quinn, who nodded for her to continue. "We have, trust issues, I guess. All the feelings are there, and we're definitely something more than friends. We just…keep getting in our own way." She frowned. "If that makes any sense," she finished halfheartedly, before leaning back and resting her head on the couch.

Quinn bit her lip, afraid maybe she had pushed the issue a little too far. As curious as she was, it was clearly a sensitive subject. She reached out toward Tina, but retracted her hand, unsure. Steeling herself, she reached out again, finally making contact and stroking Tina's hair in what she hoped would be interpreted the way she meant it, as a comforting gesture. "I think you'll work it out," she said soothingly, trying to sound decisive. "You like him, and it's obvious to everyone that he's crazy about you." Tina nodded listlessly, letting Quinn continue to run her fingers through her silky strands. "I hope you're right," she said sadly. "Again, complicated."

Quinn dropped her hand to Tina's shoulder and squeezed. "Can I see my toes yet?" she asked, deliberately steering the conversation to something more lighthearted. Tina sat up and nodded. "I didn't put the finisher on yet, so I can still change it if you want," she explained. Quinn pushed herself up a little higher on the couch so that she could see her feet. "Wow. Tina, you're amazing. These are gorgeous."

And they were. Quinn's toes were a beautiful, sparkling purple, and somehow without her noticing, Tina had managed to paint white and blue flowers on each of her big toes. The flowers even had shimmering silver leaves. Tina flourished under Quinn's praise, and Quinn felt gratified to see a faint look of pride, something she rarely saw there, on Tina's features. "I had a nanny for three years who was from Vietnam," she confided to Quinn. "She would paint my nails for me every week, so I learned from watching her." She tapped lightly on one of Quinn's toes. "They're dry enough for me to seal them, so you'll be done after I add one more layer." She shook the clear bottle and finished painting Quinn's toes.

* * *

Later that night, as she and Tina were sharing a bowl of popcorn on the couch, Quinn watched Tina watch tv. She looked…relaxed. Not nervous like she was in the halls, or animated like when she was with Mercedes and Kurt or dancing in Glee. Just, peaceful.

The show Quinn was ignoring went to a commercial, and Tina glanced over. "Do you want a drink or anything?" she asked, ever the hostess. "Or…you can go to bed, if you're tired. You don't need to stay up if you don't want to." Quinn shook her head, smiling. "No, it's not that. It's just…thank you. For letting me stay here. I'm really glad you invited me."

Tina's smile faltered a bit. "Quinn," she said seriously. "I'm really glad you came, and you're welcome to stay whenever you want. And this might sound stupid or pushy, but…" she paused, taking a deep breath. "When this baby is born, we're all still here. We're not just being nice to you because you're pregnant, or we feel sorry for you or something." She smiled tentatively, reminding Quinn a little bit of how Finn used to look at her, when he wasn't sure if she was going to hug him or start yelling. She continued shyly. "At first, we were all kind of scared of you, or at least I was. But now that we've gotten to know you, like, actually know you…I guess I just wanted to say that we're your friends. If you'll let us be."

Quinn reached up to brush away the tears that were forming in her eyes. There was nothing she could say. No words that she could think of that could explain every emotion that Tina's speech had dragged up. Shame, relief, gratitude. Hope. She had treated the kids in Glee so badly—slushies, verbal evisceration, actively trying to bring down the club that had brought them together and given them joy. And after all that…this.

Quinn reached out and grabbed Tina's hand with her tearstained fingers. "Thank you," she whispered.

And it was enough.


	3. Chapter 3

The second real chapter of a 5-6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie and some Kurt for good measure.

The wedding was fantastic. I am in a happy, happy state of mind, and am using a spare hour typing this and hoping to share that happiness with all of you. Thanks for being awesome, and leaving such nice reviews that made me all cheery.

I'm spending today traveling—this may result in more iTunes purchases. Hit me up if Glee is up for sale, because I still don't own it.

* * *

Monday morning: Quinn had been at Tina's house for three days. Three days which had probably been more educational than sixteen years of living with her Mom and Dad. Who knew there were coupons in the Sunday paper?

In between movies, a scary Rachel Berry-run rehearsal ("I took the liberty of purchasing two pairs of ballet shoes in sizes newborn and preemie. It's never too early to start honing your talents."), and just hanging out, Quinn had watched as Tina basically ran the household: doing laundry, grocery shopping, and paying the bills that came in the mail with her parent's checkbook like it was the most natural thing in the world. Quinn wasn't entirely sure her own parents even knew how to change the light bulb in the ceiling fan—as far back as she could remember, the Fabrays had had a housekeeper who came in four days a week to take care of that sort of thing. But here was Tina, adding powdery soap stuff to some strange compartment on the inside of the dishwasher, explaining what she was doing to a curious Quinn. If it was almost anyone else, Quinn probably would have gotten snippy and defensive. But Tina had this gentle manner of explaining things than made Quinn feel less stupid for not knowing anything useful.

Plus, squeezing all the fruit in the store to find the best pieces had been kind of weirdly amusing. In a dorky sort of way.

Quinn checked her phone. 8am—normally way too early to get up on a vacation, but the baby was making her have to pee, like, every ten seconds. Plus, she could smell coffee.

When she made it down the stairs ten minutes later, however, Tina wasn't there. Instead, Artie Abrams was pulled up to the kitchen table, pouring three mugs of decaf. His hair was slightly tousled, and he was wearing track pants and a t-shirt—a casual look that totally would have worked for him if he hadn't marred it by also wearing a thin pair of black suspenders. "Morning," he greeted her, holding out a coffee mug. Quinn raised an eyebrow as she accepted it. "Good morning," she replied in her sweetest voice, which directly contrasted with the mockingly evil expression she fixed on Artie. "Are you coming or going?"

Artie smirked and shook his head. "So not even what you're thinking," he informed her. "I always come over on Mondays and wake Tina up. She has a mental block about getting out of bed after the weekend; I think she'd only go to school four days a week if we let her."

Quinn took a sip of coffee, before reaching over for the sugar bowl. "There's no school today, though," she pointed out, stirring in a spoonful. "Vacation." Artie smiled darkly. "Truth. But did the phone ring sometime in the middle of the night?" Quinn frowned, thinking. "I woke up around 1:30," she said slowly, "and I never do that. So probably."

Artie's expression deepened. "Thought so. That's the other reason I come. Daddy Chang always calls on Sunday whenever he's out of town. He's not too good at remembering the whole 'time zone' thing. It's usually fine, but there's occasionally damage control." He took another sip of coffee. Quinn frowned. "What does he say that's so bad?" she asked. Artie shrugged, glaring at the table. "Don't know," he told her, "whenever I'm here and he calls, they speak Kor-english. It's kind of hard to follow the conversation when you can only hear and understand about a fifth of what's being said. Tee doesn't like to talk about it, so I wouldn't bring it up, if I were you."

Quinn studied him. His expression was confusing, unreadable. But his grip on the coffee mug was far tighter than necessary; Quinn could see the tendons in his left hand popping beneath the skin. "You don't like them, do you?" she asked. "Tina's parents, I mean." Artie looked down the hall toward the stairs. Quinn immediately caught on. "I won't tell her anything you say," she promised. Artie shook his head quickly. "It's not that. Tina knows that…they're not my favorite people," he said, choosing his words deliberately. "But it hurts her to hear me say it, so we don't talk about it. And she's right, they're not bad people," he stressed. He glanced down the hallway again, and lowered his voice. Quinn leaned in to hear him. "But they are bad parents. They're only here maybe a third of the time. And then they try and make up for their essential abandonment of their only child by squeezing in a bunch of parenting in the two days a week or so that they're actually around. Telling her not to watch too much TV, or that magazines will rot her brain, or wouldn't she like them to fix her up with a nice Asian boy for the company ball coming up?"

The bitter irony in his tone made Quinn's stomach turn. She had a feeling he'd been keeping his anger at Tina's parents inside for a long, long time.

"And none of it would be so bad, except that she internalizes it all," Artie continued moodily. "She's not herself around them; she's the person she thinks they want her to be. They love the idea of her, their sweet little Korean American daughter who will follow in their footsteps and make them proud." His grip on the mug tightened again, so hard that Quinn was afraid it might shatter under the pressure. "But she's not who they think she is. She's better. She's this amazing person, and they don't even see it. I don't want her to get hurt or disillusioned or anything. But the Cohen-Changs, they don't love her enough. Not like she deserves. And it just pisses me off because I don't think that anyone deserves so much and gets so little."

Quinn and Artie sat quietly for a moment, staring at each other. Quinn wanted to reach out and hug him, take his hand. Instead, she watched as the resentment slowly drained out of his face, replaced by a look of sad resignation. "Sorry. You didn't ask for all that," he apologized, picking up the coffee pot and holding it out to her like a peace offering. "Would you believe it's PMS?"

Quinn snorted, making him smile, and waved away the coffee. "It's okay," she told him. "You love her, you want the best for her. There's nothing wrong with that, and you certainly don't have to apologize to me for it." Artie shrugged. "I don't even think it's that," he mused. "I think it's that I don't see how anyone could _not _love Tina and want what's best for her. Including herself." He glanced back toward the stairs. "I can't believe she's not up yet. Usually the smell wakes her up, and she's down here by the time I finish pouring."

Quinn got up and rinsed her mug in the sink. "Want me to go check on her?" she offered. "I have to go upstairs and get my vitamins, anyway." Artie thought about it, then nodded. "Tell her I said you girls could decide what to do today, as long as it's not the arcade again." Quinn gave him an inquisitive look, and he gave her a wry smile back. "Life doesn't get more embarrassing than getting schooled at Skee Ball by Kurt," he explained, making her laugh.

As she passed by his chair, Quinn impulsively dropped a kiss on the top of Artie's head. "You're a good guy," she said. "Tina's so lucky that she's got you." Artie smiled faintly, and Quinn left him doctoring a second mug of coffee as she started up the stairs.


	4. Chapter 4

Part 3 of a 5-6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie and some Kurt for good measure.

All right, can we please talk about the fact that A.) 'adorability' is actually a word, and B.) it can be pretty well applied to pretty much anytime both Artie and Tina were onscreen at the same time in the finale episode?

That being said, since this story is set pre-water breakage, there won't be any spoilers for the Season 1 finale. Surprisingly enough, there weren't any re-writes required for this chapter (which I stupidly wrote before the new episode on Tuesday).

As always: I don't own Glee, but I do own some major gratitude to the fine people who took the time to review. Way to rock hard.

* * *

"I don't know how you've managed to stay so slim this whole time," Kurt groused, tilting his head thoughtfully. "One slice of pizza too many and I look more pregnant than you did at five months. Let me see the back of that dress," he demanded, motioning for Quinn to turn around. Rolling her eyes—it was the sixth dress Kurt had given her to try on in that store alone—Quinn pivoted in place. Kurt nodded approvingly. "Excellent. I knew aubergine would be your color. I know you have a thing for pastels, but they're just too Tennis Club Frigid for my taste. This suits you much better." He clapped his hands in front of him. "All right ladies, we're done here."

"Oh thank God," Artie muttered. Quinn sent him a sympathetic look. When she and Tina had decided they wanted to go shopping and out to dinner, Artie had easily agreed to the plan. But then Tina had invited Kurt since it was his day off, and it had all gone downhill fast. In the last three hours, Kurt had dragged them to every store in the mall that sold maternity clothes, claiming that Quinn needed "some casual daywear that isn't floral or polyester—_who exactly_ has been dressing you, by the way, and may I shoot them please?" Artie's subsequent complaints that his testosterone levels might never recover from the expedition had been stifled by Kurt's offer to treat them all to the dinner of Artie's choice when they were done shopping, along with a threat to steal his credit card and buy him an entirely new wardrobe consisting of "staples and signature pieces from Armani Express; not my usual taste, but it would work for you."

Technically that had been an offer as well, but Quinn could tell from the instant pallor on Artie's face that he had been suitably horrified by the prospect.

The maniacal glint in Kurt's eye brightened, which Quinn had already deduced was a bad sign. "Now we just need shoes to go with it!" he exclaimed happily. She stifled a groan. Artie was less stoic. "Kurt," he stated firmly, "I am not going into a shoe store. I don't care if you sneak into my house and replace all my clothes with Gucci. You are not getting me into a shoe store. Consider the line drawn." Beside him, Tina shot Kurt a pleading look. Quinn noted with amusement that her boots were slowly inching out of Kurt's sightline, edging behind the wheel of Artie's chair as if trying to escape from the firing squad. Kurt exhaled dramatically. "As if you could pull off Gucci," he said huffily. "Fine. You two are no fun. Meet us downstairs in an hour, and we'll go to dinner." Artie and Tina didn't need to be told twice—Quinn had never seen them move so quickly.

"Looks like it's just you and me, Octomom," Kurt said airily. "Shall we?" He offered Quinn his arm, picking up their shopping bags (three dresses for Quinn, one muted periwinkle pashmina for Kurt) in his other hand. She ignored the slur on her uterus in favor of accepting the help—her back was starting to ache—and he escorted her to the cash register. Like at the previous stores, Kurt refused to let her pay. "I consider it my sacred duty to ensure your pregnancy-related crimes against fashion cease immediately, before you inadvertently pass on a dowdy gene to your baby," he informed her, swiping his credit card expertly through the machine and penning his wildly embellished signature. "This is what happens when people spend their formative years wearing uniforms to school," he lectured. "I had you pegged as someone with an instinctual eye for fabrics, but your natural ability has been half-drowned under all that Cheerio poly-blend."

Quinn hitched her purse higher up on her shoulder as they walked out of the store. "Kurt, I really don't think my feet are up to trying on shoes right now," she confessed. "They get swollen and awful at the end of the day." Kurt waved a hand. "Not a problem," he said regally. "I didn't think they would be. I just wanted a chance to talk to you without an audience." He smiled wickedly. "Tina only has four pairs of shoes, and Artie has an unnatural hatred of DSW—he says the salespeople always give him dirty looks. Scaring them off was almost too easy."

In spite of herself, Quinn had to smile. "Preying on a shared weakness to kill two birds with one stone. Very Santana, I'm almost impressed," she admitted, and Kurt's smile grew. "So," she asked, curiosity piqued "what did you want to talk about that you couldn't say in front of them?"

They had reached the food court, and Kurt guided her to a table before answering. "This will sound blunt. Please don't make a scene in public," he warned, and Quinn stiffened with dread. Kurt was the leader of his band of Gleeks—if they had something awful to say to her, Kurt would be the one elected to share it.

It occurred to her in that moment how much their opinion of her had come to matter.

Kurt smiled carefully, as if he was willing her not to explode with his expression. "You're about ready to pop," he said, stating the obvious. "You have no permanent home, no job, and no life skills. Have you thought about what you're going to do after you've given the baby away?"

Whatever Quinn had been expecting—she hadn't yet decided what the worst case scenario would be—it wasn't that. "W-what?" she stammered, feeling slightly blindsided. Kurt put a hand over hers. "Don't get upset, I know it's a lot to think about," he said soothingly. "I just wanted to get a sense of what I'm starting out with." He sat up in his chair, smiling beatifically at her. "You need help sorting out your life. I'm the most organized person we know that's not Rachel Berry. And be honest, _me _helping you figure out a plan of attack is a far more palatable alternative." Quinn had to agree. Kurt could be blunt and acerbic, but Rachel still kind of made her want to claw her eyes out some days.

She was trying to be a better person, but still. She was pregnant—she was entitled to a certain amount of bitchy thoughts.

Plus, she and Kurt were really a lot alike. They were both sharp, style conscious (whatever Kurt might say), good at getting what they wanted from people. They didn't always endear themselves to others, but they could be charming when it counted. If she was going to speak frankly with anyone, Kurt was a good choice—he wouldn't pull any punches, but he would also understand her way of thinking and where she was coming from. "Okay," she said, resigning herself to the conversation and sitting up in her seat. "Where do we start?"

If Kurt was surprised that Quinn had fallen in line so quickly without even a token resistance, he hid it well. "Let's start with your living arrangements," he decided. "You're set until the baby is born, but we should examine your options post-delivery." He bent over to open his bag, and Quinn couldn't cover a laugh as he pulled out a journal entitled _Operation: Baby Mama_ and an honest-to-God purple puffball-topped pen. "I'm sorry," he quipped, "did you want to take the notes?" Quinn composed her face, but couldn't quite control the amused glint in her eyes. "No, you go ahead," she acquiesced. "Thank you," Kurt replied magnanimously. "Now. We've talked to Mercedes' parents, and they're prepared to keep you through high school if they need to." Quinn frowned slightly. Staying with Mercedes had been fine—great, actually. Mercedes had been wonderful to her, and she genuinely enjoyed the other girl's company. But the Joneses had three kids, one of whom was in college, and she didn't think they could afford to feed and house a forth one long term. Not to mention that they shouldn't have to.

"If you're thinking what I think you're thinking, we'll have to get creative," Kurt interjected. "You know they'll never take your money." Quinn smiled ironically. The two of them really did think alike. "If I know Mrs. Jones—and I do—the best way to get her to accept is to pretend that you're planning to move out—nothing against them, of course, just that you don't want to be a burden," Kurt mused, staring off into space. "When she throws a fit and demands that you stay, insist on giving her some money to help out—just a couple hundred dollars a month."

He flipped open a page in his notebook. "I've also prepared a pro/con list for you staying with Tina, since you've been there for three days and nobody's died yet. You wouldn't have to worry about money there, since Momma Cohen stuffs a bunch of twenties in an envelope to cover all the food and non-bill expenses whenever she's home. And," he added, "As we kind of couldn't help but notice that you have the life skills of a four year old, Tina agreed to teach you as much as she could while you were there." At Quinn's puzzled expression, Kurt rolled his eyes. "How much does a postage stamp cost?" he asked.

Quinn frowned. She didn't know.

He tried again more gently. "Why do you have to separate lights and darks in the laundry?"

She didn't know that one either. In fact, Quinn had thought it was kind of weird that Tina specifically picked out the five light pieces from her huge pile of clothes before loading the washing machine on Sunday, but hadn't said anything.

Kurt nodded knowingly. "Until a few months ago, Tina practically had a day job as a mime. If she's narrating everything she does around the house, it's for your benefit, not hers. I'd suggest paying attention—between the two of us, we can pretty much teach you everything you'll need to know to live on your own one day."

He shifted in his seat. "The thing is, even though the Cohen-Chang's house is pretty much the original Dysfunctional Family Picnic, Tina has no idea how they would react to her bringing a school friend home to live. So my recommendation if you go with Door #2 is to plan on staying with Mercedes the couple nights a week one of the Parental Units is in, and if you get caught unexpectedly, call it a sleepover. Pretend you're tutoring her for Lit. class; they'll be your new best friends." Kurt rolled his eyes mockingly.

Quinn mulled it over. She hadn't considered living with Tina beyond the week. On the one hand, she'd feel a lot less burdensome—the Cohen-Changs clearly weren't hurting for money—and Tina was actually kind of nice to be around, now that Quinn was starting to get to know her better. She was funny, and considerate, and had a great music collection. On the other hand, it would be really weird living somewhere without the homeowners knowing about it. And she really did like Mercedes' family. Plus, going back and forth would probably get really old really fast.

"I have to think about it," she told Kurt, and he flipped another page in his notebook. "Take your time," he advised. "You don't have to decide this week." He twisted his mouth nervously. "I wrote down a third option as well, but I'm not sure how you're going to react to it." Quinn stared at him, giving him permission to continue. He cleared his throat. "What do you think the likelihood is that your parents will take you back after you have the baby? And if they ask you to come home, would you go?"

Quinn's mouth went dry, even as moisture began building up in her eyes. "Would you get me a drink, please?" she asked Kurt, in a quiet, dead voice that didn't sound very much like hers. He gave her a look that she didn't even try to interpret before getting up, squeezing her shoulder gently as he walked past.

For so long, Quinn had cried herself to sleep every night with her phone in her hand. Praying for God to make it okay, for her parents to call and say that they made a mistake and wanted her back.

That they still loved her.

As the weeks and months passed, she had gone through cycles of emotion: despondency, hopelessness…

Anger.

Lots of anger. She had never truly felt anger at her father before—just love, admiration, the occasional bout of annoyance or frustration. Feeling rage and knowing that she was entitled to the sensation probably would have felt liberating, she thought, if it wasn't her father's abandonment which had caused it. There wasn't much liberation in being kicked out as a pregnant teenager, nothing to her name but two suitcases and a duffel bag.

A well-manicured hand placed a glass of ice water, complete with lemon and a straw, on the table in front of her. Quinn smiled weakly at Kurt as he sat down. "I don't know," she told him. "I don't know, and I don't know. I think we should make other plans, because I'm not going to set myself up to get crushed again if they don't even care." Feeling the tears creeping into the back of her throat, she took a sip of lemon water. "I know it wouldn't ever be the same, if I went back," she continued. "They'd never look at me like they did before. And as much as I just want to go home, be their little girl again, I don't think I could ever completely forgive them. It's wrong of me, I know it. But it's the truth."

She shook her head. It was too much. "Can we talk about something less depressing?" she asked. Kurt smiled. "Of course," he said. "_I _can talk to you about everything money related—rent, bills, college scholarships, anything you need." Quinn raised an eyebrow at his enthusiasm. He fixed his hair with a delicate hand. "I do the bills at my dad's garage," he explained. "I have experience. Who else do you know that can stretch money from a part time job to pay for a designer wardrobe that's expanding faster than your waistline?" She shrugged and he smirked. "That's what I thought. Now, it's probably best that you don't start working for a couple more months—give your body and crazy girl-hormones time to readjust after the baby. But no matter what you end up doing, we need to hook you up with a cash flow. Artie's pretty sure he can get you a summer job as an intern in his dad's office. The pay isn't incredible, but it's easy work, and if you do it well, it has the potential to turn into an after school job next year. Not to mention it'll look good on your college applications and work resume, and it beats working at a fast food restaurant hands down."

Quinn nodded thoughtfully. She'd never had a summer job before—between cheerleading camp, church retreats, and her demanding social life, her summers were just too busy for work. But the idea of earning her own money—and guaranteed air conditioning, hello—sounded kind of intriguing. Not to mention a steady source of income would be a welcome relief.

"Now, as far as college is concerned," Kurt continued, pulling out a sheaf of papers from his bag, "I had Mike bribe one of the office assistants for your grades and class schedule." Quinn thought about getting angry over the invasion of privacy for about two seconds, before deciding that she didn't care. Her grades were fantastic, so what if the Glee club saw them? Kurt seemed to agree. "You're in great shape for some serious scholarship money—Honors student, far above average PSAT scores, almost all A's. I'd suggest taking SAT prep with me and Mercedes next session. Ms. Pillsbury teaches it, and it's free. I'd also recommend working on your chemistry grade, since it's the only subject you're getting less than an A minus in." Quinn rolled her eyes. "Mr. Dawson won't let me do half of the labs," she complained. "He thinks being around the chemicals will give the baby AIDS or something." Kurt snorted. "Mr. Dawson is an idiot. Okay. In that case, we can petition to have you complete alternative lab work—since you have a medical condition, they have to allow it. That's how Artie substitutes his physical therapy for gym class. Until that goes through, though, we need you to ace all of the tests and quizzes. Artie, Tina, and Matt are in the 6th period section, and the Dynamic Duo are both getting A's. They'll study with you, if you want." Quinn nodded, feeling a little better.

It was really too bad that she and Kurt had never traveled in the same social circle until now. He might be a one-man Gay Pride parade, but he was actually pretty good at this life coaching stuff.

"You don't have to start applying for schools or financial aid anytime soon, but I can help you with the research over the summer," Kurt offered. "Let's face it: you're going to get one hell of a college essay out of this whole thing. Uniqueness is key." He sat back in his plastic seat, crossing his legs and folding his hands in his lap. "I'm in the garage all morning tomorrow, but I get an hour long lunch break at 1pm," he told her. "Bring over everything you have that's money related: checkbooks, credit card statements, cell phone bills, piggy bank, etc. We'll start assessing your finances."

Quinn was about to agree and thank him, when both of their phones went off at the same time. Quinn flipped hers open. _Message from Tina C.C.: U 2 dn? Hngry & brd. –T_

Kurt raised his eyes skyward. "I don't know what she has against vowels," he snipped fondly, standing up and offering Quinn his hand. "It only takes twenty more seconds to put them in, and legibility skyrockets." He folded Quinn's hand over his arm, leading her to the escalator. "I'm pretty sure the hair dye is affecting the part of her brain that houses literacy skills," he stage whispered.

Quinn let out a perfunctory laugh, but her mind was elsewhere. Seeing Tina's name on her phone had reminded her of something that Kurt had said earlier.

"_Tina agreed to teach you as much as she could while you were there."_

The possibility that Tina had lied on Friday, that she really was only helping Quinn because she felt sorry for the pregnant girl, made Quinn's stomach twist uncomfortably.

The feeling grew as she and Kurt approached Artie and Tina where they were waiting on the ground floor. Tina was curled up on a bench, talking to Artie and tapping a fingernail on the armrest of his chair as she spoke.

"_If she's narrating everything she does around the house, it's for your benefit, not hers."_

When she saw Kurt and Quinn coming toward them, though, Tina's smile was so genuine that Quinn began rethinking her insecurities. Maybe all the baby stress was making her paranoid, as well as fat and moody. Either way, Quinn decided not to bring it up until after the evening was over.

They still had to go to dinner, after all.

* * *

On the way to the Thai restaurant that Artie had picked, Quinn rode shotgun in Kurt's car, under the pretense of wanting to hear a song that he had mentioned earlier that day. When they pulled into the parking lot, she took his arm again—her feet really did hurt—and didn't let go until they reached the table and she needed both hands to pull herself into the booth across from Tina, smiling as Artie maneuvered himself into the seat next to the other girl and expertly folded and tucked away his wheelchair for the meal.

She'd never eaten Thai food before, but the other three insisted that she'd like it if she liked Chinese, and helped her pick a dish that turned out to be fantastic. Plus, Kurt gushed, spicy food was like manna for unborn babies, and the meal they'd ordered for her was still mild enough that it wouldn't give her heartburn.

She tried not to grin like an idiot when she noticed Artie and Tina holding hands under the table. But she couldn't help being a little disappointed when she and Kurt came back from the ladies' room and the two hadn't taken advantage of their absence to move closer together or make out or anything.

On the way home, she offered Artie the front seat in Tina's car, and he graciously accepted. When they got to his house, five blocks from Tina's, he gave both girls a hug goodnight as Tina pulled his wheelchair out of the trunk and Quinn climbed out to move to the passenger seat. Quinn had almost made up her mind not to say anything to Tina about what Kurt had told her, until Artie's hug made the twinge in her stomach return.

Hugging was a friendship thing. Quinn was pretty sure Artie was her friend at this point. But she had to know.

When Tina pulled the keys out of the ignition in her driveway, it took her a second to realize that Quinn was staring at her, unmoving. Looking unnerved by the scrutiny, she slowly took her hand off of the door handle and placed it back in her lap. Quinn broke the silence. "Was it Kurt's idea or yours to have me stay here?" she asked bluntly, taking note of the recognition in Tina's eyes as the underlying meaning of the question sunk in. "Mine," she answered quietly. Quinn nodded. "And the whole Home Ec. class thing?" she continued. Tina looked down at her feet. "Kurt asked me to do it," she confessed. "After he explained why, I said I would." Quinn felt her eyes swim with tears, for what felt like the millionth time in the entire stupid pregnancy. She hated crying.

But this felt kind of awful in a different way.

"I need you to tell me the truth," she demanded flatly, and Tina slowly nodded her head. Quinn swallowed. "What you said on Friday. About not feeling sorry for me, and being my friend," she clarified. God, why was this so hard? "Did you mean it, or am I just a project for you guys?"

The silence between them was brief, but seemed eternal to Quinn, who felt as if her lungs were being crushed under a giant weight.

And then she saw that Tina was on the verge of tears as well.

Quinn watched, entranced, as Tina tugged uncomfortably at her arm warmers. "I'm not good at words," she explained softly. "I never know the right thing to say, or how to explain anything important. I was afraid that if I tried to tell you, that this would happen—that you'd think we were just helping you because you're in Glee club, and that we don't really care about you." She blinked, and a tear sent a trail of mascara down her cheek. "But we do. Care, I mean. That's why I wanted Kurt to explain, I knew he'd do it better. But I should have been the one to tell you."

Finally, she looked up at Quinn, who was struggling not to cry openly. "I don't have a lot of friends," Tina admitted. "I really, really meant it though, when I said we wanted to be yours. I'd never lie about something like that." As she reached up to wipe the streaks of makeup off her cheeks, Quinn found that she believed her. "I'm sorry I suck at it," Tina said self-deprecatingly, and Quinn let out a noise that was half laughter, half a choked sob. "You don't suck," Quinn told her. She shook her head, trying to articulate the ideas that were swirling around in her mind.

"When Kurt said what he did, and I realized that you were all planning stuff for me behind my back, I guess I just…" She stopped, composing her thoughts. "I know I need help. I know I can't do this alone," she said. "I'm not good at asking for help, and I guess I just have trouble understanding why any of you would want to help me and be my friend, after all the crap I've put you through." She sighed, leaning her head against the car window. "I can't be this person," she realized. "I can't be the type of person who is suspicious and paranoid and who pushes people away because she expects everyone to have an ulterior motive."

They sat there quietly for a minute, lost in their respective thoughts. Finally, Quinn sighed. "Can we just…I don't know, agree to be honest with each other from now on?" she asked. "I'm pretty sure friends do that." Tina nodded. "Okay," she agreed, "I like that." She opened the car door, but turned back to Quinn before climbing out. "So, friends?" she asked shyly, giving Quinn a look that was at once so sweet and hopeful that Quinn found herself smiling back automatically. "Yeah," she said decisively. "Friends."

She squeezed Tina's hand in her own before getting out of the car.

* * *

Fair warning: The next chapter is just as long as this one. And I'm bringing the drama.


	5. Chapter 5

Part 4 of a 5-6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie and some Kurt for good measure.

So. Much. Writer's. Block. This chapter started out completely different than the final version, thanks in large part to a specific image that got into my head and prompted a massive re-write. This is why ideas are bad and everyone should avoid having them as much as possible.

More notes at the end; if I gave them here, it would spoil the fun. And I'd hate to do that, since the people I've been hearing from about this story are just so nice.

I haven't rounded out Season 1 on Amazon yet, so I still don't technically own Glee. Sadness.

* * *

Quinn was only in the house for eight seconds before she realized that something was very wrong.

She'd only been out of the house for about half an hour. It was Thursday, and she and Tina had spent the day doing all the homework they'd been avoiding and rocking out to the Cohen-Chang's seriously excellent sound system. Tina had declared it Girl Group Day, so they'd been switching back and forth between their iPods—the Supremes and the Spice Girls from Quinn, and Tegan and Sara and The Veronicas from Tina. Tina had also slipped in a few Paramore tracks, claiming that any song only featuring killer female vocals ought to qualify. Quinn couldn't think of a reason why not, and it made Tina happy, so she had let it slide.

They had worked steadily until around 5pm, when Tina had gone into the kitchen to start dinner and had realized that they were out of both oil and butter. Quinn's heart was kind of set on Italian food (in a 'My baby will punch you in the face if we don't get some' kind of way), so she offered to go to the store and pick up whatever they needed. The weather was unseasonably warm and the walk was only four blocks, so Tina agreed to start cooking while Quinn was out.

But the music was blaring and Tina hadn't answered her shout, and Quinn could see a faint trail of smoke snaking out of the kitchen and into the hall.

No longer starving, Quinn dropped the bag with the olive oil and chocolate-chip cookies on the ground and ran to the kitchen. The linguine that had been sitting on the counter had been tipped over, and dry pasta had spilled from the box and scattered all over the floor. The water on the stove was boiling over, and the flame underneath the pot hissed and spluttered as water splashed over the rim. Grey smoke poured out of the edges of the oven, making the air in the room ripple with the heat.

And Tina was nowhere to be seen.

Dry noodles crunched under Quinn's feet as she sprinted the distance to the sink and grabbed a dishtowel. Wrenching the faucet on, she soaked the blue terrycloth before wrapping it around her right hand. She crept through the smoke-tinged air to the stove, protecting her stomach with her arm and doing her best to keep it as far away from the boiling pot as possible, as she located and twisted the knob that controlled the burner. The flame immediately went out, and Quinn sighed in relief as the splashing water slowly calmed down. She snapped the oven off, but decided against opening it to check for a fire. Instead, she eyed the smoke warily, waiting. After a couple of minutes, it had definitely thinned and lightened, and Quinn ran her hands over her flushed face and back through her hair. Whatever was in the oven—Quinn wasn't sure what Tina had been making—it probably wasn't going to burn the house down, at least.

Tina was still missing.

"Tina?" she shouted. The stereo was still going strong, drowning out her voice—and, presumably, Tina's. Quinn checked the living room—empty—and impatiently jabbed the power button on the stereo.

The house went deadly silent. "Tina?" she tried again.

Nothing.

Starting to get scared, Quinn hurried toward the stairs to check Tina's room. Before she could make it halfway up the steps, however, she heard a slight noise coming from the bathroom at the end of the front hall. Carefully, she backed down the stairs and crept closer. The noise grew louder—a faint crying sound. Quinn felt sick.

"Tina? Is that you?" The crying grew slightly louder, and Quinn grabbed the doorknob. It was locked. "Tina, what happened?" she asked, shaking the handle. "Are you okay?" Quinn could hear Tina breathing, fast and shallow, on the other side of the door. "F-f-f-fine! G-g-go away," her voice stammered, slightly muffled, and Quinn stared at the door in shock. Unsure of what to do—Tina certainly didn't _sound_ fine—she tried again. "Tina, did you get hurt? Open the door," she demanded, trying to keep from panicking or getting completely hysterical.

Tina didn't answer, and Quinn could hear her breathing get even faster and inconsistent.

She had no idea what to do.

Quinn had always known that she was not the type of person who took charge in emergencies. She wasn't completely useless; she followed directions well under pressure, and could execute a plan as well as the next person.

Often better than the next person, actually. She hadn't been made Head Cheerio by Coach Sylvester by being a moron.

When it came to quick planning in a crisis situation, however, Quinn could think of a lot of people who were better at seeing the big picture and assuming responsibility for it than she was. And maybe this wasn't an emergency, but something was obviously not right, and not having anyone to defer to was, well…

terrifying.

A sudden beeping sound from the kitchen made her jump. Heart in her throat, she rushed into the room, looking around for a fire alarm or carbon monoxide detector or something else that could possibly be going wrong. The beeping repeated, and Quinn sighed in relief as she realized that it was only Tina's cell phone, going off on the counter.

Wait. Tina's _cell phone. Quinn Fabray, you are such an idiot_, she chastised herself, snatching the phone off the counter and snapping it open. _Artie._ She quickly scanned the message ( _"Found it! Be there in 5 ;)" _) before pounding the send button. "Pick up pick up pick up," she murmured impatiently, her jangled nerves making her bounce dangerously in place.

He answered on the third ring. "Hey Tee, I'm almost—"

"Artie, it's Quinn," she cut him off. "You need to get here, something's wrong." Her voice was pitchy, sounding frantic and not much like her own. "Quinn?" Artie asked, sounding confused. Then: "Oh my God, are you having the baby? Shit, okay, um, I'm almost there. Do you need a ride to the hospital? Where's Tina?"

Quinn shook her head, forgetting momentarily that he couldn't see her. "No, I'm fine, the baby's fine," she sputtered. "It's Tina. I was just out for a few minutes, and when I came back, the kitchen was practically on fire and she'd locked herself in the bathroom. She's crying or hyperventilating or something, and I'm trying not to freak out but I'm _scared._"

She heard a sharp intake of breath on the other end of the phone. "I'll be right there," Artie said, and Quinn sent up a brief prayer of thanks. "Quinn, listen to me, okay?" Artie was saying, "I need you to find Tina's medicine. Check her purse, her room, whatever—just find it. Can you do that?" Quinn nodded. "Yeah," she said breathlessly, "Got it." Find medicine. She could do that.

"Stay calm," Artie instructed. "I'm hanging up so I can use both hands—I'll be right over." Stay calm. _Yeah freaking right._

Hanging up, Quinn sprinted to the living room and tore through Tina's school bag. Books, papers, gum, safety pins…nothing remotely resembling medicine.

Crap. Okay.

Quinn took the stairs two at a time up to Tina's room. A cursory glance at the desk and nightstand yielded nothing, nor did a hasty search of the desk drawers. Quinn ducked into Tina's bathroom. The white marble décor contrasted strangely with the colorful assortment of vials and bottles littering every spare surface—makeup, hair products, body washes and facial cleanser. Sliding open the mirrored medicine cabinet, Quinn exhaled in triumph: among the usual bottles of painkillers and Midol were three orange prescription bottles from the pharmacy. She snatched them all and ran back down the stairs, gripping the railing firmly to keep from tripping in her haste.

The front door opened with a crash as she reached the bottom step, and Artie wheeled through the door, windswept and out of breath. He gestured to Quinn, who handed him all three bottles. Scanning the labels, he opened one and shook out two small, round capsules. "Where is she?" he gasped, still winded, and Quinn pointed to the locked bathroom. Artie nodded, wheeling himself over. "Water," he instructed, and Quinn rushed to the kitchen yet again as Artie called to Tina, in a more soothing tone than Quinn ever imagined him capable of. "Tee, it's me, it's Artie. It's okay, you're okay…"

Snapping pasta as she walked, Quinn grabbed a blue plastic cup from the cupboard and filled it at the sink. She dumped a few tablespoons out after noticing her hands were shaking, not wanting to spill any water on the floor.

The absurd futility of the gesture struck her as soon as she turned around and remembered the state of the kitchen.

Back in the hall, Artie had his hand pressed flat against the door. "Tina, just unlock the door for me, okay? I promise, everything will be okay." Quinn waited, staring at the doorknob, holding her breath in anticipation.

The lock clicked. Quinn exhaled.

Holding a silencing finger to his lips, Artie took the water from Quinn before slowly opening the door. "It's okay, it's all right," he said softly, rolling into the room as if he were sneaking up on a rabid animal. "It's okay. Come here, Tee, it's all right."

Quinn chanced a peek around the door frame. Tina was huddled into a ball by the sink, sweating and shaking. Her breathing was erratic, and her face was flushed, as if she had just finished a marathon. She looked sick, but not necessarily hurt. Although, Quinn noticed, she was cradling her left hand in front of her, and jolted violently when Artie tried to touch her.

"Tee, it's just me," he pleaded, voice smooth and calming. "Quinn found your pills, they'll make you feel better. Can you swallow?"

Quinn watched as Artie folded the pills into Tina's right hand, running a gentle hand over her back as she lifted them up to her mouth to take them. Her hands were vibrating too hard to hold the cup that Quinn had brought—Artie had to hold it steady as she drank. "There you go, good," he praised softly. "They'll start working soon. You'll feel better soon. Can I see your hand?" Taking her wrist—bereft of arm warmers, for once—Artie turned her arm carefully. Even from the doorway, Quinn could see the skin of Tina's palm was too red and shiny. "B-b-burned it, on t-the s-s-t-t-tove," Tina managed to stammer, teeth chattering. Artie remained unrattled. "It's okay, it wasn't your fault," he told her. "Quinn," he called out, not raising his voice, "would you please get some ice from the kitchen?"

Quinn was a little unnerved by Artie's almost supernatural calm—she was used to Coach Sylvester barking out orders, or Santana yelling, or even Rachel's infuriating condescension. But watching Artie gently coax Tina off of the floor and into his lap like she was a frightened puppy, she saw a slight flash of fear in his eyes, lasting only a second.

He was scared too, she realized, but he was trying not to scare her and Tina.

With that in mind, she mentally willed her body to relax as she filled a sandwich bag with ice cubes from the dispenser on the refrigerator. She brought it back to Artie, who took it and nodded his thanks. She nodded back.

Tina's breathing was slowing down, and her skin, though still unnaturally flushed, was starting to return to normal. She was still shaking, but Quinn noted that she was no longer shrinking away from Artie's touch. That had to be good.

Quinn backed quietly out of the room.

Listening carefully in case Artie called for her, Quinn got to work cleaning up the kitchen. Grasping the pot on the stove—with three sets of potholders, just in case—she poured the water down the drain and wiped the excess drops off of the stovetop. She swept the pasta on the floor into a pile with a broom from the closet, before picking it up and throwing it away in giant handfuls. She opened the window above the sink, then opened the over door, tensing as a giant puff of grey smoke flew out. The still-warm pan went directly into the sink; the charred stick of what Quinn decided must have started out as garlic bread followed the pasta into the garbage. Squirting dish soap all over the pan and putting away what was left of the linguine, Quinn examined her handiwork.

Kurt and Tina would be proud.

Filling up a second bag of ice, Quinn snuck around through the living room and passed by the stairs to approach the bathroom door from the other side. Tiptoeing as silently as she could, she peeked through the crack in the door, staying hidden.

Tina was leaning back against Artie's chest, head tilted slightly to rest on his shoulder, as Artie kept a firm arm wrapped around her waist. His left hand was splayed against the back of Tina's injured one, and his fingers wove through hers to hold the ice in place on her palm. The cold water faucet was turned all the way on, and Artie's forearm was propped up on the edge of the sink, holding both of their hands under the spray.

Artie's shirt was soaked up to the elbow. He didn't seem to notice.

Tina's breathing was slow and even, her eyes half shut and heavily lidded. Artie's mouth was buried in her hair, crooning gently in her ear.

"_I see skies of blue, and clouds of white, the bright blessed day, the dark sacred night…"_

_And I think to myself, what a wonderful world_, Quinn followed along in her head. She tore her eyes from the crack in the door as Artie started the bridge of the song.

She shouldn't be watching. It was too…private. Intimate.

Artie was still singing softly. _"I hear babies crying, I watch them grow, they'll learn much more than I'll ever know, and I think to myself, what a wonderful world…"_

Quinn slipped away before the last few lines. As Artie hit the final note, she slipped out the back door.

* * *

When Artie rolled out on the patio half an hour later, Quinn was curled up on a deck chair. He gave her a tired smile. "You okay?" he inquired gently. She nodded. "How's Tina?" she asked him, her voice hoarse. He parked his chair next to Quinn and leaned back, looking as drained as she felt. "She's fine," he replied. "The medicine we gave her pretty much knocked her out, but she'll be good in a few hours." He paused. "I'm sorry if she scared you," he offered. "The first time I saw it happen I nearly cried like a little girl, I was so terrified."

Quinn shook her head, conflicted. She'd gone back and forth on how much to ask, not sure if demanding to know exactly what the hell had just happened would be an invasion of Tina's privacy or not. On the other hand, Artie sounded like he understood what she was feeling, and was giving her permission to ask. "Artie…what was that?" she asked slowly, hoping she was interpreting the situation correctly. He sighed. "Panic attack," he said, looking away from her. "I don't know if it happened while she was cooking and made her burn her hand, or if the stove thing happened first and freaked her out." He smiled wryly. "Knowing Tee, probably the latter. I'm sure you've noticed that she isn't the world's greatest chef."

Quinn, who actually hadn't noticed any such thing, didn't respond. Artie sighed again, apparently misreading her silence. "She's not crazy," he elaborated sternly. "It's an anxiety thing, same as the shyness. It's surprisingly common, a lot of people deal with it. It's not like she's nuts." His eyes bored into Quinn's, and she nodded quickly. "No, I know she's not," she promised honestly. Softened, Artie continued.

"I didn't know Tina in middle school. The bullying wasn't the same there, no slushies or dumpsters or anything, but I think it must have been harder on her. She didn't have a lot of people she could count on, and…well, I guess I don't need to tell you that girls can be cruel."

Quinn tried, and failed, to swallow the lump that formed in her throat.

She hadn't known Tina in middle school either. But then, she hadn't really known most of the people she had humiliated and intimidated, either. Artie was right. Girls could be cruel, and she had been…awful. She never really put a face to her victims before, not even after joining Glee and realizing the daily torments undergone by many of the club's members. Never bothered to connect the dots and realize that the people she picked on were the Tinas, the Kurts of the world. And middle school…she couldn't even remember the names of most of the people she had tortured back then.

She was certain, though, that they could remember hers.

Artie's eyes flashed with understanding, and he reached out to grab her hand. "That's—I didn't mean it like that," he backpedaled, rubbing his thumb over her knuckles in a comforting gesture. "That's not what I was trying to say. I just meant that, I know this year hasn't been easy on you. Getting targeted by people who don't even know you, people who were your friends turning on you," he explained, rubbing his free hand through his hair sheepishly. "I meant that I figured you could relate, that's all."

Quinn shot him a humorless smile, eyes rimmed with pink. "But it's true," she said. "Maybe that's not how you meant it, but that's who I was." Artie's expression at that—knowing acknowledgement, mixed with compassion and understanding—was too much. Quinn looked away, eyes drifting over Tina's immaculately manicured lawn. They sat in silence for a moment, her hand limp in Artie's. Finally, she shook herself out of it. "You were so calm," she observed, changing the subject. "I was terrified, but you were like Superman or something."

Artie laughed. "Do me a favor, tell everyone at school you think so," he teased. He took off his glasses and examined the lenses. "I guessed what was going on when you said that she was hyperventilating," he admitted, cleaning the left lens with his shirt. "After the first time she had an attack in front of me, I made her tell me exactly what to do if it ever happened again. She'd eventually be fine and get through it on her own, but it's terrifying—like getting crushed from the inside, she said. The pills are kind of like taking a fast acting inhaler during an asthma attack, I guess." He put his glasses back on. "Even if they knock her out like a tranquilizer gun, it's better that she takes them."

Quinn tried not to stare at him, but the levity in his voice didn't quite match his eyes. "Does it happen a lot?" she blurted out, almost immediately regretting it—she wasn't sure she wanted to know the answer. Artie shrugged. "This is only the third one I've ever seen her have," he said, a strange tenseness creeping into his voice. "She says they happen less often now, but I don't know what that means, number-wise." His face was grim. "It's not her favorite topic of conversation. Understandably. Just getting her to tell me what I told you was like pulling teeth. Maybe she'll talk to us about it later, when she's feeling better, but try not to take it personally if she doesn't."

Quinn looked at him, gaze point blank. "Do you?" she asked. He looked back at her, confused, so she elaborated. "Take it personally, I mean. Every time you tell me something important about Tina's life, you end it by telling me that you guys don't talk about it."

Artie's smile was tight, bitter. "We really don't," he admitted. "I don't push her, because I don't want to make her unhappy. She gets enough of that from everyone else; she doesn't need it from me." His eyes met Quinn's, and she was startled to see that they were laced with guilt. "And it's not all her fault," he explained. "Half the time when we talk about my wheelchair, or my future capabilities, I end up yelling at her or pushing her away somehow. And when she told me the truth about her stutter, I acted like a jerk for so long. By the time I pulled my head out of my ass…I don't know. We both messed up on that one, but it was the only time I was really, truly afraid I might lose her." He swallowed, shaking his head. "It's hard," he told Quinn. "Needing someone so much."

This time, Quinn was the one to reach out and make contact. "But she needs you too," she pointed out, hand on his arm. "You can't even pretend like I would have figured out what to do earlier. You were totally her Knight in Shining Armor." Artie smiled, but still disagreed. "It's different," he argued, and the simple statement held such a note of finality that Quinn didn't even try and continue.

They were quiet for a while. Much as Quinn didn't want to dwell over it, her brain kept returning to what Artie had said about need. Instinctively, her arm curled around her stomach. She had to wonder how much difference there was, really, between need and want. There were things that she wanted but didn't need, yeah, but Quinn couldn't think of a single thing that she needed that she didn't want just as much.

Except sometimes, wants were harder. Sometimes they contradicted themselves.

Quinn stared listlessly at the backyard. _Philosophy sucks._

"You know how I met her?" Quinn looked over at Artie. His gaze was far away, like he was watching a scene unfold that Quinn couldn't see. She sat up to listen, intrigued.

"It was the first day of school, freshman year," he was saying. "I'd just gotten this chair a few days before, so I wasn't entirely used to it yet. I was trying to get around a table in the cafeteria, and I wasn't paying close enough attention to where I was going. Next thing I knew, I had rolled right over a big, black combat boot." Quinn gasped, trying unsuccessfully to stifle her laughter. "Oh no, you didn't," she accused. Artie grinned back sheepishly. "Oh no, I did," he assured her. "I looked up, and there she was: punk hair, black clothes, safety pins, the whole nine yards. I swear to God, my life flashed before my eyes—I thought she was going to kill me. Like, literally kill me, and maybe drain my blood and use my intestines in a pagan ritual or something."

Quinn snorted. The idea of sweet little Tina murdering people for body parts was probably the most ridiculous thing she'd ever heard. "What did she say?" she demanded, eyes sparkling. Artie tilted his head skyward, smiling. "She just stared at me while I was jabbering out an apology like an idiot. I'm sure I sounded stupid, but I can't even remember what I said; I might have offered to buy her a new foot or something, I don't know." Artie rubbed his hands together, clearly in his element as a storyteller. "Finally she opens her mouth, and I'm thinking 'Oh man, here it comes'. And she apologizes! I _ran her over_ with my wheelchair, and she was upset because she thought she'd accidently gotten in my way. Turns out that her shoes were so thick, she didn't even feel it, and she had no idea why I was so mortified."

Quinn burst out laughing, clutching her stomach. Artie joined her, seemingly delighted at her amusement. "So, love at first sight, then?" Quinn asked in a mock serious tone as their laughter faded. Artie nodded. "Yep, pretty much," he confessed, matching her demeanor. "Just don't tell anyone," he threatened. "I'm pretty sure my girlfriend could use your still-beating heart for _something_, if you're not careful."

Even if he was joking, it was the first time Quinn had ever heard him mention the g-word. It took pretty much all of her self control to not squeal like a pre-teen girl and snatch him up into a huge hug. Luckily, he didn't notice.

"Well, since I've thoroughly trashed my reputation as the manliest stud around by talking about my _feelings_ for the last twenty minutes," Artie groaned, pulling his backpack off the back of his wheelchair, "I guess I can't sink any lower by giving you this." Rooting around in his bag, he pulled out a DVD case and handed it to Quinn. "I was bringing it over when you called," he explained, "Tina thought you'd like it. Very camp, but surprisingly entertaining." Quinn skimmed the case. _Drop Dead Gorgeous_. She'd never heard of it before, but the cast list looked pretty good, and Artie was supposed to have great taste in movies. "Can we wait until Tina wakes up?" she asked automatically, then bit her lip. Bringing up Tina's condition probably wasn't the most sensitive thing she could have done in that moment, she realized.

But apparently it was the right thing to say, because Artie was smiling. "Sure," he agreed, "and why don't we order takeout? I'd offer to cook, but we should probably give the stove a break. Plus, I can't reach it." He rolled his eyes. "Thank you for cleaning the kitchen, by the way," he said seriously. "You didn't have to do that." Quinn shrugged, pulling herself to her feet and stretching her stiff arms over her head. "It wasn't a big deal," she reassured him. "Besides," she added teasingly, "I wouldn't be surprised if she trashed the kitchen on purpose, just to see if I've been paying attention this week. I wanted to make sure I passed the test." Artie's smirk turned thoughtful. "That does sound like something she would do," he said solemnly. He looked up at Quinn, clearly fighting to keep a straight face. "Just for that, we wont even wake her up to see what she wants for dinner. She'll just have to eat what we pick—that'll teach her to give pop quizzes."

Eyes glinting, Quinn gave him a sharp nod before entering the house.

* * *

Maybe it was a food coma from the takeout—Quinn made a mental note to steal the menu, any place that delivered lasagna was number one in her book—or maybe it had just been a really, really long day. Either way, Quinn woke up as the credits were rolling and realized that she had fallen asleep about two seconds into the movie.

Okay, more like fifteen minutes. Whatever.

She glanced over to the couch. When they'd started the movie, Artie had been supporting a hazy, groggy Tina, keeping his arm around her shoulders as she leaned tiredly into his chest. Sometime during the movie, they had shifted positions: they were both lying down facing the screen, Artie curled protectively around Tina. Her fingers were laced through his, and she had pulled their intertwined hands up to her chest.

Squinting in the faint, flickering light from the tv, Quinn hunted around her armchair until she found the blanket she had been using earlier. She laid it on top of the pair as gently as she could, before switching off the television and quietly heading for the stairs.

* * *

AN: Yeah, I know. I didn't see that one coming either.

In all seriousness-There are many different types of Anxiety and Panic Disorders, and not everyone experiences them in the same way. People can exhibit wildly different symptoms, and to different degrees: what is completely managable for one person can be entirely debilitating for another. I tried to be as sensitive as I could with Artie's explanation, while also keeping in mind that he's in high school. As smart as he is, he doesn't have a psych degree. I do, though, so I have no excuse-if you've experienced panic attacks first hand and found anything in here to be offensive (or just want to talk about it, that's cool too), please feel free to let me know what you find troubling and I'll do my best to fix it.

Also, I don't own Louis Armstrong. _"Who's Louis Armstrong? KILL YOURSELF!" _Oh, Sandy. (And really, please don't)


	6. Chapter 6

Part 5 of a 6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie and some Kurt for good measure. Some allusions in the next two chapters to _Swift and Exacting_, but they're understandable on their own.

So. The previous chapter. I'll admit to being pretty nervous about how people would receive it when I posted it, but you all blew me away. Extra special props to the people who responded with their own life/anxiety stories—if I could give out Bravery cookies the way Rachel gives out I'm Sorry cookies, I'd do it (:

In other news, I'm traveling. Again. This is my seventh flight in about 5 weeks, and I'm. So. Tired. Of. Flying. So if the next (also the last) chapter of this story is disappointing, it's because it was probably written on an airplane :/

I still don't own Glee. Which, given my propensity to torturing characters, is probably for the best.

* * *

When Quinn woke up on Friday morning, once again smelling coffee, Tina and Artie were already awake and in the kitchen. Tina's back was to the doorway, and Quinn used the opportunity to sneak a quick glance at Artie. He frowned at her and shook his head, confirming her suspicions—Tina wasn't talking about what had happened the night before.

Whether she was compensating or whether it was genuine, Quinn didn't know, but she'd never seen Tina in such high spirits. She had unearthed an ancient waffle-maker from one of the lower cabinets, and was humming cheerfully while making an exorbitant amount of blueberry-chocolate-chip waffles, which she then topped with powdered sugar. It was probably the weirdest, most delicious thing Quinn had ever tasted, and she vehemently took Tina's side when Artie teased her for "just throwing everything in the refrigerator on a plate and calling it cooking. Seriously woman, you just put _blueberries_ and _chocolate chips_ in the same food item—I'm pretty sure that's not even allowed."

Tina just rolled her eyes and pointed out that he had already eaten three of them, and that he was welcome to make his own damn breakfast, earning a sheepish grin in return.

"I talked to my parents," Artie told Quinn as Tina joined them at the table. "If you're cool with it, I'm going to stay over for the rest of the weekend." Quinn nodded, pouring a disgusting amount of syrup on her waffles-one of the few perks of teen pregnancy. "They don't mind you staying over with girls?" she asked curiously. Her parents would never have allowed her to sleep over at a boy's house, particularly when there was such a distinct dearth of adult supervision going on. Artie grinned slyly. "Nah. Although I was surprised that the 'But every harem needs a sultan!' argument was the one that worked." Quinn laughed, and Tina squawked indignantly and threw a roll of paper towels at his head. He caught them and stuck his tongue out at her.

After breakfast, Quinn surprised herself by being the one to suggest bringing a stack of extra waffles to Kurt. Tina suggested inviting him to sleep over, and an hour later the three of them were showered, dressed, and on their way to the Hummel's garage, a plate of waffles resting on top of Quinn's stomach in the backseat.

* * *

Quinn had never been to the Hummel's house or garage before, and she looked around curiously as she got out of the car. It was fairly busy—a number of cars were parked both inside and out, awaiting repairs. Quinn vaguely recognized Mr. Hummel, who greeted them as they came in.

Or rather, he greeted Tina, nodded to Artie, and suggested that Quinn join Kurt in the office, glancing warily between her protruding stomach and the nearby rack of power tools.

Kurt was on the phone and taking notes on a legal pad when they came in, but he immediately began dissecting a waffle with his left hand, eating the blueberries and ignoring the rest. (Artie shot Tina a look that Quinn could see clearly meant 'I told you so.' Tina's response was to slap him lightly on the back of the head.) After getting off the phone, and repeatedly smacking his head on the desk—"The stupidity I deal with. I imagine this is what Puck's physics teacher feels like every day"—Kurt agreed to come over after he got off of work and had a chance to shower. "But if we're having a sleepover, we're doing it right," he warned Tina sternly. "That means I get to do your hair, and the lead male of any movie we watch needs to have a hotness quotient of at least 8 ½."

* * *

Although Kurt's shift at the garage ended at 3:00, he ended up arriving at Tina's house at the same time as Mrs. Abrams, who came by around 5:30 with a guitar and duffle bag for Artie and a platter of baked goods for everyone else. ("Artie's mom is the _best_," Tina told Quinn fervently. After sampling a lemon square from the plate, Quinn had to agree.) "There should be enough of everything in here to last until Sunday, but you kids call me if you need anything, got it?" she insisted warmly, hugging her son and fondly brushing Tina's hair out of her face.

When Quinn remarked to Kurt that Artie's mom was about a thousand times more relaxed about the prospect of a co-ed sleepover than her own parents would have been, Kurt rolled his eyes gently at her. "Look at it this way," he pointed out, examining his cuticles and frowning at what he saw. "This sleepover is comprised of the gay kid, a walking advertisement for contraception, and two misfit teenagers whose relationship, while disgustingly adorable, has had more hang-ups than a telemarketer. These are not the odds one should play in Vegas." He shuddered when Quinn held out the plate of lemon squares. "Refined sugar goes straight to my ass," he snipped. "Are you _trying _to sabotage me?"

Though Quinn tried to stay invested in the evening, she couldn't help but remain a little detached. She responded cheerfully when asked a direct question, and laughed in all the right places when Kurt tried to convince Artie that reruns of _Angel _were an acceptable alternative to actual movie watching, and even helped broker a deal between Tina and Kurt regarding Tina's hair (he would redye her streaks pink _if and only if_ she promised to avoid wearing anything navy or green for the rest of the school year). As much as she tried to stay in the moment, though, her mind kept drifting to Tina and Artie.

Artie had been surprisingly frank with her the night before about his feelings for Tina. Tina was a little more reserved, but every casual glance or touch exchanged between the two only served to make Quinn more certain that she was just as crazy about him. And if Quinn—and everyone else—could see their mutual adoration so clearly, what exactly was keeping them from being one of those insanely cute couples that got old and blue-haired (the real kind) together? _It's complicated_, Tina had said. Watching Tina laugh at something Artie had said about the foils Kurt was folding her streaked hair into, Quinn resolved to find out what Tina had meant by that.

Someone deserved to be happy around here, after all.

* * *

Tina shook Quinn awake the next morning just after eight. "It's the opening weekend of the Farmer's Market," she explained, handing Quinn a travel mug of decaf. "Kurt has to go home, but if you get dressed and come with me and Artie, we can get to the stall that does breakfast BLTs before they run out." Quinn was immediately on board at "BLT", and practically leapt out of bed to brush her teeth.

The market was bustling, and Quinn stuck close behind Artie's chair to avoid being bumped into as she inhaled her sandwich. The stalls were overflowing with fruits, vegetables, flowers and plants—many of which Quinn had never seen before. When she said as much to Tina, the girl explained with an ironic smile that even though everything at the market was supposed to be locally grown, pretty much everyone was willing to look the other way if it meant cheap avocados and mangos and such.

Quinn had to laugh as Artie explained their shopping strategy to her, which basically boiled down to 'send Artie to bargain for the best prices.' "We're not above using public shaming," he said seriously. Tina nodded in agreement. "We almost got overcharged for grapefruit once," she added solemnly. "But there was a woman near us that had a nephew with cerebral palsy, and she got so righteously indignant on Artie's behalf that we didn't even have to pay. _And _we got free bananas from the stall next door."

Over the next hour, the three of them wove their way through the stalls—Tina shelling out money and carrying the sack of goods, and Artie acting as her gofer. It was on one of his errands that Quinn decided to start prodding Tina. "This is really fun," she began, smelling the hydrangeas on the nearest table. "I'm glad you two thought of this." Tina smiled sweetly. "We went back and forth on whether or not we should just let you sleep," she admitted, "but we figured you'd want the bacon." Quinn laughed. "That was definitely part of the appeal," she agreed. Shifting slightly in place, Quinn rubbed her stomach absently. "Listen," she said, suddenly a little nervous, "can I ask you something that's kind of…personal?"

Immediately, Tina's defenses went up. "If it's about the other night, I don't really want to talk about it," she stated flatly, her eyes watching Artie as he chatted with a vendor. Apparently misreading Quinn's startled silence, though, she sighed and relented a bit. "I'm sorry, though. Artie said you weren't upset, but that I might have scared you a little." Quinn smiled dismissively. "He's giving me a lot of credit," she joked, "I was a basket case. But it's not your fault; you don't have to apologize." Tina was still frowning, and Quinn didn't want to prolong a topic that she was clearly uncomfortable with. (She mused briefly that this must be what Artie had meant, when he said that he didn't push her because he wanted to avoid upsetting her.) So she nudged Tina gently with her shoulder and subtly tried to re-steer the conversation. "Besides, Artie got there like, right after I called him and totally saved the day."

Tina bit her lip. "Quinn," she said hesitantly, still looking everywhere but back at Quinn. She paused. "What is it?" Quinn coaxed, keeping her voice soft. Tina twisted a newly pink strand of hair around her finger. "Can you…" she broke off again, before taking a breath and restarting. "Can you tell me what happened, when Artie came over? I only remember parts of it," she said by way of explanation when Quinn gave her a questioning look.

So Quinn did. She explained how Artie had told her what to look for, and how he had sped into the house and persuaded Tina to unlock the bathroom door. She described how she had brought them ice, and Artie's effort to treat the burn on Tina's hand, and how gently he talked and sang to her.

She left out the part about their conversation on the patio. That wasn't hers to tell.

As she wound up the story with everyone falling asleep in front of the movie, Tina's eyes soft and emotional, Artie wheeled back toward them and presented Tina with a bag of oranges. "Bow down and worship," he said proudly. "These were the only six decent oranges in the entire crate." Quinn and Tina genuflected appropriately, and he laughed.

"Are we all set then?" Tina asked, rooting around in her canvas shopping bag and examining their purchases. Artie shook his head. "Almost," he said mysteriously. "I have one more stop to make, but it's a secret." Quinn raised her eyebrows and opened her mouth, but Artie beat her to the punch. "Nuh-uh, a surprise is a surprise," he scolded, grinning. "I'll meet you at the car in ten. And if you follow me, I'll know," he warned. Tina rolled her eyes. "He really will," she confirmed. She kissed the top of Artie's head. "All right, James Bond," she teased. "See you in the parking lot." Artie pretended to pout at her as he rolled away.

Quinn looked up at the sky as she and Tina made their way back through the market. Now seemed like as good a time as any to give the pair a gentle shove, so Quinn went for it. "If you want, I can take off for a few hours today," she offered. Tina shifted the bag of produce onto her hip, searching through her purse for the keys to the car. "Do you need to go somewhere?" she asked, unearthing her keychain. "We can take you wherever, we don't mind." Quinn shook her head. "No, I meant…" she paused, trying to think of a way to make her point without embarrassing Tina. "Since I've been around all week, you and Artie haven't gotten any time just to yourselves. I thought maybe you'd want a couple hours just to hang out alone, or something." Tina smiled, completely missing Quinn's meaning. "Quinn, we like having you around," she said reassuringly. Then paused, smile faltering a little. "But if you're sick of us, and need some space—"

Quinn cut her off. "No, no, no, not…it's not that," Quinn promised. _Crap._ "I like being with you guys too. But don't you two want time together without me or Kurt? Like, as a couple?" She braced herself for Tina to turn red, or stammer, or even go into flat out denial mode. Instead, Tina just shook her head sadly, looking intently at her shopping bag. "Thanks, but it's kind of pointless until I'm off Artie-watch," she said, in a tone that Quinn had never heard from her and couldn't quite identify. "Artie-watch?" she asked, hoping Tina would give her a clue to what she meant.

Tina opened the trunk. "Artie…overreacts to stuff, sometimes," she explained, putting the bag inside the trunk and shoving it over to make room for the wheelchair. "I got a concussion one time, and I don't think I was alone in a room for at least a week, he got so worried. He says he didn't get Kurt and Mercedes involved, but I can usually tell when he's lying." She sat down on the rim of the trunk, swinging her feet. "Right now, he's kind of focused on taking care of me, not being with me," she mumbled.

Quinn sat down gingerly next to her. "He cares about you," she pointed out, thinking of the conversation she and Artie had had on Thursday. She reached over to lay a comforting hand on Tina's shoulder. "Maybe he's just trying to be there for you when you need someone." Tina shook her head. "No," she disagreed. "It's bigger than that. He gets that way about his disability too, really sensitive. The biggest fight we ever had was when I told him about my stutter being fake." She looked at Quinn, who did her best to look curious—the last thing Tina needed to hear right now was that she and Artie had talked about it behind her back. "It took me a really long to figure it out," Tina was saying, "because he gets mad at me, but he never stayed mad at me for so long about anything, except that." She pursed her lips, making her mouth a thin, tight line. "I don't even think he realizes he's doing it."

Quinn, a little uneasy that Tina was starting to get visibly upset, rubbed her shoulder carefully. "Realizes what?" she asked soothingly, dipping her head to look into Tina's eyes. "What is it?"

Tina's whole body began shaking under Quinn's hand.

"He's always there when I need him," Tina said, her voice strangled. "Always. When I'm hurt, or sick, or sad, when I'm alone, he's there. And he takes care of me and says all the right things, trying to be whatever I need. And it's all the stuff he can't do or say when I'm standing on my own two feet." Tears began flowing freely from Tina's eyes as she spoke. "He relies on me a lot, and we both know it. But he needs me to need him, and he holds back so much when I don't, like he's afraid that me being whole and okay on my own means that I can just walk away whenever I want."

Quinn, who was a bit shell-shocked at her sudden breakdown and confession, wrapped her arms around Tina and squeezed her tight. "But you need him too," she pointed out, realizing in that moment that she had said the same exact thing to Artie. "Maybe it's different, but—"

"No, it's not," Tina interrupted harshly. "He thinks that his being in a wheelchair is something I can't understand, and that his needing me is always going to be more demanding than my needing him. But he doesn't get that it's not about that. I _want _him, I want him so much, and that should be the part that matters. You don't pick what you need, you either need something or you don't and that's it. But you choose what you want, and I choose him; I choose him every single time, and it's like he doesn't even see it. And I can't tell him in a way that makes him hear it. I don't know why he can't just get it, I don't—" Tina's crying degenerated into all out sobbing, and Quinn could do nothing but hold onto her and rub her back gently, feeling a vague sense of loss and déjà vu.

After a few minutes, Tina's sobbing slowly subsided. "I'm sorry," she said thickly, wiping her face on her sleeve and sitting up. "I'm just really tired." Quinn reached over and fixed Tina's mussed hair. "Tina, does Artie know you feel that way?" she asked, digging around in her purse until she found a moist towelette from the Thai restaurant. Tina shrugged and didn't answer, which Quinn took to mean 'no'. Tina looked so drained and sad that, instead of pressing her further, Quinn simply watched as she mopped up her face and reapplied a layer of eyeliner without a mirror—hiding every sign of her meltdown expertly, like she had done it a thousand times.

When Artie came into sight a couple minutes later, Tina stuffed the wipe, black with mascara, into her bag. "How do I look," she asked Quinn anxiously. Quinn smiled reassuringly. "Beautiful," she responded, earning a small smile back. And it was true—if Quinn hadn't witnessed it, she wouldn't be able to tell from looking that Tina had been crying her heart out not five minutes earlier.

Artie approached crookedly, wheeling with one hand and holding the other behind his back. "Ah, 007," Quinn said dryly, amusement tugging at the corners of her mouth. "Locate the mystery item?" Artie grinned devilishly. "Item_s_," he corrected. "First: for you and yours," he said suspensefully, reaching a second hand behind his back, "chocolate chip cookie dough!" He held out a cup of ice cream, and Quinn squealed with delight. Tina didn't buy ice cream for whatever reason, and she'd forgotten how much she missed it. A couple drips had spilled over the rim, probably because of the angle Artie had held it at, and Quinn swiped them up with her finger and licked them off before starting in on the treat.

"And for you," Artie continued, turning to Tina, "the most colorful thing at the market." He pulled out a bouquet of carnations. Quinn remembered passing the buckets filled with the flowers earlier, marveling at the impossibly bright petals in dozens of hues. Tina's bouquet was a vibrant purple, and somehow the florist had managed to paint glitter onto each flower-head, making them sparkle in the daylight. Tina studied the shimmer as she took the bunch, positively beaming. "Good?" Artie asked, a teasing smile on his face. She leaned over and kissed him. "Best," she promised. Hiding behind her ice cream, Quinn grinned widely. "Only the best for my harem," Artie said seriously, making them all crack up. Quinn let Artie take the front seat again as they drove home.

* * *

Later that evening, Tina and Quinn combined forces, and their puppy-dog eyes and pouting lips accomplished what all of Kurt's logic had not. By the time the fourth episode of _Angel_ had finished, they had all fallen asleep in front of the tv for the second time in three days.

* * *

Mercedes texted both Quinn and Tina from the car on Sunday, letting them know that the Joneses would be getting back to Lima around 7:30 that evening. Mercedes would take the car shortly after to pick up Quinn from the Cohen-Chang's. Quinn's bags were packed and waiting by the front door, and she was listlessly helping Tina make dinner as Artie practiced the guitar in the other room. Every few minutes, Tina would call out a song request, and he would either oblige her or loudly remark at her bad taste—which Tina assured Quinn was his way of covering up the fact that she had chosen a song he didn't actually know how to play. It was all so absurdly domestic, and Quinn wasn't sure why it was both warming her heart and making her stomach hurt at the same time.

She didn't really want to examine it.

Instead, she plotted in her head while she chopped some of the fruit they had bought at the market the previous day. She was leaving in half an hour, and she still hadn't really done or said anything to help Tina and Artie's relationship issues along. She sort of had an idea of what she wanted to say, but getting them to listen—and not losing her nerve—could be a problem.

The seasoned potatoes that Tina had made were good, but Quinn could only bring herself to pick at them. Lost in thought, she didn't notice that Tina and Artie were both staring at her, concerned, until Artie used his fork to tap on her glass. "Are you okay?" he asked, looking worried, then turned to Tina. "Is this a pregnancy thing?" he wondered. "I can google it." Quinn shook her head. "No, I'm fine," she promised. They were still looking at her uneasily though, so Quinn took a breath to steel herself. "I just…I wanted to say something," she started.

The uneasy looks grew even deeper, and if Quinn wasn't so weirdly nervous, she might have laughed.

"You guys have been so good to me," she breathed out. "Especially this week, but even before that. I was never particularly nice to either of you, and if I hadn't gotten pregnant, I can't…" she paused, swallowing. "I can't say for sure that ever would have changed," she admitted. "I want you to know how much I really appreciate everything you've done for me. Thank you. So much, just, thank you."

Now Artie was smiling and patting her hand from across the table, and Tina was giving her the same look she had given her in the car when Quinn had said they were friends, and in retrospect, that would have been a really good time to just stop talking.

Instead, Quinn opened her mouth and took the plunge.

"I owe you guys a lot, for everything. And…this isn't my place, but I have to say it. You two work so well together, and it's obvious how much you care about each other. And the only way I can help is by being honest with you, because I don't think you're really being honest with each other, and you deserve better than that."

Quinn looked at Tina, whose eyes were huge in her face. "Tina, sweetie," she started gently, "you need to tell Artie what you told me yesterday. You need to talk about how you feel and what you want, and be honest about things—even if you're afraid what you're feeling might be ugly or scary or painful. You can't just keep things bottled up inside, or they're going to drown you." She stared pleadingly at Tina, who looked like she wasn't sure if she wanted to hide under the table or burst into tears. "I could never do that," she admitted softly. "We never talked about anything real in my house, and I never tried to let anything out because I knew I didn't have anyone in my life who really wanted to hear it. And I screwed up my life because of it. But you have Artie, and me, and the rest of your friends. And I know you can be better than me."

Tina's face was buried in her hands, and Quinn could feel her own vision starting to blur. She turned to Artie, who was fixing her with an unreadable expression, similar to the one he had worn while telling Quinn about Tina's parents. "Artie," she pleaded, "I know you love Tina, and you want to protect her, and that's great. But you can't protect her from everything, and I know you know that. You have to let her be sad and angry about things sometimes, instead of just trying to make them okay. She's not a little girl, she's your equal, and you have to treat her like one. The way she treats you like one. Tina was the first one on your side when Figgins wouldn't give us the handicap accessible bus for Sectionals, and she stands up for you no matter what." Artie looked like he was going to interrupt, and Quinn rushed on before he could break her momentum. "She loves you, and she'd love you exactly the same whether you were in a wheelchair or not. I mean, come on—the girl built you a ramp with her own two hands, doesn't that tell you something?"

Artie's expression was one of shock. "You didn't know that," Quinn realized out loud. Wordlessly, Artie shook his head.

Tina had begun sobbing into her hands during Quinn's speech to Artie, and now the noise of her crying was the only sound in the room. As if seeing her for the first time, Artie reached over and tenderly pulled her into a hug, rubbing her back as she latched onto him. "It's okay," he said soothingly, before looking coolly at Quinn. "I think you should go," he said expressionlessly.

Quinn stared blankly at him and Tina for a minute, before the full weight of what she had done—the things she had said and the confidences she had broken—sank in. Then, quietly, she stood up and left the room.

* * *

When Mercedes pulled into the driveway five minutes later, she found Quinn sitting on the porch with her suitcase and backpack, looking shell-shocked and hollow. Mercedes looked her up and down. "Damn girl, what happened?" She asked jokingly. "Lovebirds throw you out?" Quinn looked up at her, dazed.

"Mercedes, I think I really screwed up."


	7. Chapter 7

Part 6 of a 6 part story. Quinn POV, with plenty of Tina/Artie and some Kurt for good measure. Some allusions in the last two chapters to _Swift and Exacting_, but they're understandable on their own.

It's the last chapter! And as promised, it was written on the flight out, and edited on the way back. I meant to post it earlier, but there were work-related emergencies that I got called in to eleventh-hour-quarterback, so a lot of things that were meant to happen earlier are just happening now.

Thank you for reading, thank you for reviewing, and an extra-special thank you to those of you that have been around since the first chapter—way to stick it out for three weeks ;) You rock.

No Glee ownership so far, but I'm keeping an eye on the mailbox.

* * *

Quinn knew it was spineless of her, but she couldn't help but feel slightly relieved when neither Artie nor Tina was in school the next morning.

Unable to extract a coherent explanation on the car ride home, Mercedes had called in the cavalry, and she and Kurt had spent the rest of the evening prying the whole story out of a thoroughly distressed Quinn. They agreed that she had screwed up, but were sympathetic to her plight—"You have no idea how many times I've wanted to lock them in a room together and not let them out until they have a bunch of poorly dressed half-Asian babies," Kurt had confessed. Mercedes was a little more down to earth: "All the awkward going on in that house was bound to start catching sometime," she said frankly, handing Quinn a sandwich bag full of chocolate-chip spice cookies that one of her aunts had made.

They were unified in their opinion that Quinn owed Artie and Tina a major apology, but disagreed on the methodology—Kurt's "say it with flowers; though you'll probably need an entire field of them, in this case" approach distinctly contrasted with Mercedes' plan to "blame it on the pregnancy hormones, and maybe start faking contractions to take some of the heat off." They were still bickering about it an hour after the final bell rang on Monday, as Mercedes drove the three of them to Tina's house. Quinn watched helplessly from the backseat, clutching the folders filled with Tina and Artie's homework assignments, as the pair volleyed back and forth:

"Can you cry on cue? Because you should definitely cry if you can; Baby Girl's a sucker for a meltdown."

"I still think she should be concentrating her initial efforts on Artie. Like in chemistry, when you have to stabilize the most volatile chemicals first to keep the entire thing from blowing up and disfiguring your eyebrows."

"Yeah, but Artie only ever really loses his shit when it's about Tina—make her happy, and he'll be about ten times easier to handle."

"Unless he thinks that Quinn's manipulating her because she's a pushover; it _is _the obvious strategy. Damn it! I knew I should have bought that maternity Kevlar when I had the chance."

"Will you chill out, Gay Boy? This is Tina and Artie—we're not sending her in to dismantle an atomic bomb."

"Are you kidding me? She made Tina _cry_. We're practically airlifting her into the Middle East."

"Bitch, please. He's not gonna hit a pregnant girl."

"Am I the only one in this car who remembers the red paint incident?"

Mercedes winced at that one, and Kurt turned back to Quinn. "Eighteen _thousand_ dollars worth of damage," he confided, "but you didn't hear it from me." Quinn shook her head, trying not to throw up. "You guys are really not helping," she pointed out crossly. Kurt reached back and patted her knee. "I'm going to temporarily forgive your attitude problem, but only because your skin tone currently matches the color of your pants," he said, running a finger over the grey fabric. "Don't think you've got a free pass."

Mercedes saved her from having to respond. "Showtime," she announced, pulling into Tina's driveway.

* * *

Quinn walked gingerly down the path and up the ramp to the front door, Mercedes and Kurt's parting advice of "Try not to say anything stupid" and "If all else fails, lock yourself in the upstairs bathroom and text us—we'll come extract you" ringing in her ears. With one final, desperate look back at the car, Quinn rang the doorbell.

Even from the porch, she heard the chimes echoing through the house, followed a minute later by the sound of footsteps. Quinn could feel her heartbeat pounding in her ears and in the back of her throat as the door opened partway. Tina leaned against the doorframe, clad in the black tank top and thin sweatpants Quinn knew she used as pajamas, looking for all the world as if she hadn't slept at all. Her eye makeup was slightly blurred, and her expression was utterly blank, like a storefront mannequin's.

Under almost any other circumstances, Quinn realized, she would have admired the nearly perfect deadpan expression. Then she became conscious of the fact that she'd been staring at Tina for twenty seconds without saying anything.

"Um, hi," she began tentatively, and almost immediately bit her tongue. _Brilliant start, Fabray, _she chastised herself mentally. _Say something not moronic._ She held up the folders. "I, um, I brought you and Artie your homework. Kurt got me your schedules, so I went around to all of your teachers after school." Tina made no move to take the folders, and what little confidence Quinn had left was completely shot. "Look, I—I am so, so sorry, Tina," she said in a small, unfamiliar voice. "I owe you guys a huge apology for last night, and I want to make sure I do it right. Will you please just hear me out?"

After a few, eternal seconds, Tina nodded slowly and opened the door a little wider. "You can come in," she acquiesced, her voice and expression giving nothing of what she was feeling away. Quinn closed the door behind her and followed Tina down the hall, apprehensive.

Tina had always been quiet. She had never been foreboding.

Tina led her into the kitchen. "You can sit down," she told Quinn evenly, before making her way over to the living room. "Artie, Quinn's here," she heard Tina say as she pulled a chair out from the kitchen table. She couldn't decipher Artie's murmured response, but she could guess what it was when Tina answered, "She wants to apologize. And she brought math."

Twisting her fingers together, Quinn watched as Tina backed out of the doorway to give Artie room to enter. Unlike Tina, he was fully dressed, but he shared her look of exhaustion. Quinn couldn't quite bring herself to meet his eyes, and instead watched as Tina gripped the closest handle of his chair, standing slightly behind and to the side of the wheel. Quinn bit the inside of her cheek. Hard. "Artie," she opened nervously, "I just wanted to say—"

Artie held up a hand, and Quinn's voice immediately died out.

"Quinn, you said a lot of things last night," he told her, not harshly. "It's our turn to talk this time, and your turn to listen. If you still want to say something when we're done, I don't have a problem with that." He looked at Quinn, seemingly waiting for her response, and she nodded, accepting his terms. He nodded back.

"What you did last night was out of line," he said. "You took the things that Tina and I had said to you in private and used them against us in front of each other. Whatever your intentions, you meddled in our relationship without taking our thoughts or feelings about it into account. We know you were trying to be helpful, but frankly, you don't know us well enough to be able to say what's best for us—and even if you did, you still wouldn't have the right to."

Even though she couldn't see Artie through the tears that had begun streaming down her face, Quinn couldn't help but notice that he didn't really sound angry. Instead, he enumerated her sins like he was reciting a list of facts, or reading a shopping list. Neutrally, impartially.

It gave her hope.

"You told Artie that he needed to treat me like an equal," Tina continued, her tone as dispassionate as Artie's had been. "But treating someone like an equal means respecting what they say and letting them make their own decisions. And you told me that I needed to talk about how I felt and be honest about things—but you didn't talk to either of us about how _you _felt until last night. Instead, you just kind of blindsided us."

Quinn nodded, wiping her eyes with her hand. She knew she was guilty on all counts, but she hadn't _meant _to do any of it—she really thought at the time that she was being helpful, if a bit intrusive.

"Quinn, do you understand why we were so upset?" Artie asked her gently, leaning forward to meet her downcast eyes. "Yes," she muttered thickly. He nodded at her. "Good. That being said," he said, glancing at Tina, "your points weren't entirely without merit. We do have…issues, that we need to work through, both individually and as a couple. We were up until about 5:30 this morning, just talking." The corner of his mouth twitched slightly. "It might have been one of the most open, honest conversations we've ever had. Certainly one of the longest; you gave us a lot of material to work with." Tina frowned guiltily. "I broke a set of plates," she admitted.

Quinn choked slightly.

"It got pretty raw," Artie amended diplomatically. "But we're better for it. Even if it means we have to go to Lehmans and buy more dishes." Tina groaned dramatically. "God, I hate Lehmans," she complained, and Artie gently smacked her arm. "Then stop throwing plates when you get upset, woman. Easy solution." He caught her hand and kissed her fingers, twining them through his own.

Quinn was totally confused. "So, you're…not mad?" she asked quizzically. Artie sighed. "Not really, not anymore," he told her. "Your heart was in the right place, and even if you did everything else wrong, we have to respect that." Tina sat down in the chair nearest to Artie, keeping her hand in his. "We weren't completely blameless in this situation either," she said, meeting Quinn's eyes. "I meant it when I said we should have been honest with you from the start about trying to help you. And while you definitely shouldn't have blabbed everything the way that you did, we can see how living with us and us both confiding in you might have sent the wrong message, and been confusing for you." Correctly ascertaining from Quinn's expression that she wasn't sure what it was she was supposedly confused about, Tina gripped Artie's hand a little tighter.

"We talked about it," she said, "and correct us if we're totally off base here: we kind of get the idea that most of your former 'friendships'"—she air-quoted with her free hand—"had a lot of basis in control and manipulation, and appearances. We're not saying it's your fault," she said quickly, as Quinn opened her mouth to interject. "We're just saying that we don't think anyone really ever showed you how real friendship works. The kind where you keep each other's secrets, and talk about your problems and worries without having to wonder if they'll be used against you later, and where you can totally ignore the other person's advice but know that they still have your back anyway. That kind of friendship."

Artie laughed softly at Quinn's shocked expression: it was the most she had ever heard Tina say at one time. "Tee, I think you broke her," he joked, before turning back to Quinn. "It's kind of like Cheerio politics, but instead of evil conditions and strings attached, it's…" He frowned. "Help me out here, Tee—what's a nice, not-evil string?" Tina shrugged. "I stopped doing metaphors after Rachel decorated my history notebook with gold stars," she admitted. Artie sighed with exasperation. "You are no help," he told her sternly. "But anyway, do you get it?"

Quinn laughed weakly. "I—guess so? I get the basic principles," she assured them, as they both turned to each other with long-suffering expressions. "Girl scout law or golden rule, or something like that."

Though Tina nodded, Artie looked totally confused. "It's pretty much what you just said," Quinn explained. "And I know I should have just talked to you about your feelings and stuff, instead of trying to sweep in and fix everything; I get that now. I wanted everything to work out for you guys because you're both such great people, and I just wanted you to be happy. But your relationship isn't about what I want, it's about what you want. And I'm sorry, and next time I'll be less evil-stringy or whatever."

Artie raised his eyebrows. "Who says we're inviting you back?" he asked facetiously. Ignoring his playful sarcasm, Tina looked at Quinn thoughtfully. "Actually, before everything blew up last night, I was going to." Artie and Quinn both turned to look at her, and she blushed. "W-well," she stammered, clearly embarrassed at the sudden attention, "I know Mercedes' brother only comes home every other weekend now, but he's probably going to want his room back when he comes home for the summer." She glanced at Artie before continuing. "I was just going to tell you that if you wanted to stay here for the summer, you could. Artie's getting his license soon, so he could take you to work with him, and I could teach you how to do your nails, if you want. The market's open all summer, too, and the lake isn't too far away if you maybe want to go with us sometime."

When Kurt had initially proposed that Quinn stay with Tina, and even before, when Tina had first offered her a room for the week, Quinn hadn't been entirely sure. This time, there was no hesitation. "I'd love to," she said firmly, her smile genuine. Tina smiled back.

Artie groaned. "What?" he protested, noticing the dirty looks he was receiving. "I just realized I'm going to be spending an entire summer watching reruns of every show Joss Whedon ever made. I'm allowed a minute of self-indulgence." Tina laughed at him, squeezing his hand again.

Quinn stood up. "Kurt and Mercedes are probably wondering if I'm dead yet," she admitted sheepishly. "I should probably go tell them that I'm fine." Artie and Tina exchanged a quick glance, and Tina nodded at his questioning look. "Tell them they might as well come in," Artie told Quinn. "We'll order a pizza. Ow! I mean Chinese," he amended quickly, as Tina tugged his sleeve impatiently. "Use your words—what are you, five?" he pouted.

Quinn shook her head fondly at her friends. _Friends. _That sounded nice. "I'll be right back," she promised, grinning.

Just before stepping out of the kitchen, though, she looked back over her shoulder. "It'll probably take me about five minutes to explain that we're okay before I tell them we're invited for dinner," she reasoned.

"Just in case you wanted to make out while I'm gone, or something."

She closed the door just in time—the roll of paper towels that Tina threw at her head hit the door with a solid _thunk._


End file.
